Who Riseth From A Feast With That

Vile Worm, Thou Wast O'erlook'd Even In Thy Birth.

Sorrow Breaks Seasons And Reposing Hours, Makes The Night Morning, And The Noontide Night.

Take Pains. Be Perfect.

The Brightness Of Her Cheek Would Shame Those Stars As Daylight Doth A Lamp; Her Eyes In Heaven Would Through The Airy Region Stream So Bright That Birds Would Sing, And Think It Were Not Night.

Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say!